


Painful Truths

by 7PercentSolution



Series: Got My Eye on You [18]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 07:04:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6042541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Christmas Party when Greg said he was getting back together with his wife, things take a turn for the worse. There are consequences for both him and Sherlock when they work the next case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Greg took a deep breath and unlocked the door of his flat. A casual glance around the room said it all. Not to someone who didn't know them well- a stranger looking into the living room would see a well decorated, tidy and modern place. Touches of colour, a flash of good taste. Neither of them made a lot of money, but together he and Louise had managed over the years to make themselves a nice home.

Trouble was, Louise left him yesterday. "For good. Over, done, our marriage is out with the rubbish" is the way she had put it. "Hey, Greg, don't look so upset. Another murder will come along to keep you busy. You won't even notice I'm gone. You just keep doing your bit to save the world, and I will go do what I like doing." She smiled sadly. "I've been doing that for the past three years anyway, behind your back. I'm not prepared to do it that way anymore. I've met someone and I think it's serious, so I want to give it a go. A proper try this time."

He'd been replaying her words on continuous loop for the past day. Couldn't shake them out of his head, even though each and every one hurt. He finally understood the word 'self-flagellation'. It was the last statement that hurt the worst, the bit about not trying properly. For the past three years, he thought he had been trying. He'd forgiven her the infidelity. She'd sworn that the guy she slept with wasn't important; it was just a fling. He was younger and made her feel sexy, but she knew it was wrong, so she'd told him to bugger off and then told Greg. She didn't want him to think her dishonest. She'd just been stupid. So, he forgave her and tried harder. But, clearly, it wasn't enough.

Then she asked for a couple of months' separation. She needed "some space to figure out what's going on in my head". He tried to talk her out of it, but in the end agreed to it, if she would go with him to a marriage counsellor. He thought the sessions were working. He loved Louise. She was his oasis- the part of his life that kept him sane because it didn't involve bodies, criminals, crime scenes, and investigations. She was beautiful, bright, sparky and a northern lass. Straight talking and he had judged himself the luckiest man alive when she had accepted his proposal.

So, he did agree to a trial separation. That lasted three months, and then she came back. "Like a bad penny" she said. "I guess you won't get rid of me that easily" She'd laughed when he said he never wanted to get rid of her, ever. That Christmas, they went to bed for three days and made love like newlyweds on New Year's Eve. Two weeks later, he learned to his horror that Sherlock had been right- she was still sleeping with the PE teacher- and had been all along while she was also with him.

"I wasn't sure, Greg, so I came home to spend time with you to see if Robert was really the one. And being apart from him made me realise it. We got together again. I know that it isn't fair, and I'm a bloody cow. Go ahead and shout at me. I deserve it; I've treated you badly, and I'm sorry. That's why I'm not prepared to lie anymore. Think of it as a car accident- no one wants it to happen, but when it does, you just recover the pieces and get on with things. You keep the flat; I will move my things out tomorrow while you are out at work; Robert's coming to give me a hand with the heavy stuff."

For the past three nights, he'd been awake all night, rehearsing what went wrong, what he'd done or not done that had led to this. Now, as he sat at the table in the kitchen, and everywhere he looked around the flat, he was reminded of her, of them, and of his failure to keep her. He'd never known pain like this.

oOo

"Sherlock, your phone is going manic. Why don't you just answer it?"

John was typing on his laptop. Sherlock was doing something with an experiment in the kitchen.

"You're closer." That much was true. The phone was on the coffee table, and John was probably physically closer to it than Sherlock.

"But, it's YOUR phone."

"Then it can wait until I am finished." John glanced over at the kitchen Sherlock was using a pipette to put something into a petri dish one drop at a time.

"And just how long as that likely to be?"

"It gets longer, each time you interrupt."

John sighed. He didn't know how the man could concentrate. For John, a ringing phone was like an itch that had to be scratched. "Could be a case, you know."

"Yes, that thought had occurred to me, John; quite logical, given that a high proportion of my calls are about cases. If you'd like to be certain about it, why not just look?"

The doctor didn't move; he went back to his typing, then he stopped to look at the sentence he'd just written which was utter rubbish. He sighed and stabbed repeatedly at the backspace key. Then he got up and picked up Sherlock's phone…

…which immediately started vibrating again, as if it knew he was there. He opened the text screen. "You have nine texts from Lestrade. Want me to read them to you?"

Now it was Sherlock's turn to sigh. "What part of me not wanting to be interrupted needs to be repeated, John? If you give me two more minutes I will be done with this and can do it myself. Fix yourself a cup of tea, drink it and by then I can come out to play."

As John headed for the kitchen, Sherlock added, "and fix me one while you are at it; you might also want to have a piece of toast, as this case is quite likely to be interesting."

While John was in the kitchen, he kept smiling. Trust Sherlock to come up with a conversion table, nine Lestrade texts equals a seven on the Sherlockian scale of interesting cases.

oOo

Now looking at a dead body dragged out of Hampstead Heath Ponds, the brunet detective was still. Sometimes, Sherlock wasn't all swirling motion and rapid movement around a body. He didn't swoop like some raptor, to examine more closely a hand, a torn fingernail, a piece of jewellery. He was just looking at her naked body, with his hands together, as if he was praying.

John watched him from where he was standing. He could hear Sally Donovan and Don Anderson talking in the background, but tuned out their words. Lestrade was on the other side of the body, his arms crossed, watching Sherlock, too. He looked tired, as if he'd not have much sleep for several nights.

"Anything? Anything at all?" He sounded impatient.

There was no reply, and no movement from Sherlock.

Lestrade's patience snapped. "For God's sake, Sherlock. I've held up the Forensic team for more than a half hour because you couldn't get off your arse to answer your phone. You can at least do the decent thing and not keep us hanging about while you…I don't know…contemplate your navel or whatever the hell it is you are doing now."

John tilted his head at that explosion. It wasn't like Lestrade to be so impatient. He knew the way Sherlock worked, and was willing to go along with it in every case that the doctor had seen to date. That reaction was something more like what Sally or Anderson would say. John glanced over to where the Sergeant and the CS Examiner were deep in conversation. Ever since Sherlock had 'outed' their relationship on the very first night John worked with him, the doctor could now see their flirtation in their body language alone. He didn't need the tell-tale deodorant clues. Actually, the pair didn't bother to hide it anymore, becoming more blatant as time went on.

Sherlock looked around to see what John was observing. When he realised who it was, he frowned. and turned back to Lestrade. "Tell me _exactly_ how the police constable found her in the water."

Lestrade's face screwed up in disappointment. "Ask him yourself." He turned and shouted "Jeffries, get over here." A burly copper in uniform jogged over from the police tape, which was now holding back a collection of civilians on the path, who were ogling the crime scene. "Tell him what you told me, and be quick about it."

"Right, sir. She was in the water, about 18 inches under the surface. As you can see, her wrists and ankles were tied down to concrete blocks in the water, and then she also had a wide strap across her waist, also tied to two blocks."

"Facing up or down, Constable?"

"Up, sir." The PC looked a little uncomfortable. "It was her breasts that caught the jogger's attention. I mean, they're very white, sir, and when I got here I could see them just under the water. The guy thought at first it was a dead swan."

Sherlock turned to John. "Can you estimate the length of time she's been in the water, John?"

The doctor knew that Sherlock would know the answer to this question even better than he would; after all, Sherlock had been working for months on a protocol to determine point of entry for bodies thrown into the Thames- so he'd seen dozens of drowned bodies at Barts over the summer. So, if he was asking John's opinion now, it was to make some sort of point to Lestrade and the constable.

"You know as well as I do, Sherlock. Given the low temperature last night, the water would have been close to freezing. She was put there sometime in the night. That's why rigor is still present."

"Put there? You said she drowned."

The doctor grimaced. "Yes, she did, but she was either drugged or barely conscious when put into the water. Even tied down to the blocks, she would have struggled if she was able to- and there are almost no ligature marks on her wrists and ankles, so clearly, she didn't struggle much."

Lestrade was pacing, and fidgeting, too. John watched him with some concern. _Too much caffeine?_ Something was off, not quite right with the DI.

"I don't suppose you've been able to deduce who she is, Sherlock? Or anything _useful_ to get us started?"

"Just wait, Lestrade. A few more minutes won't make any difference to her." The consulting detective now walked over to the water. "Constable, go get me one of those blocks." Jeffries was already wet from when he had pulled the body out, so he did not hesitate again to wade into the pond and reach down into the freezing water. He emerged with a concrete builder's block and laid it down at the side of the body.

Lestrade just looked at it and groaned. "A fat lot of good that will do us; it looks like the sort you'd find at almost every construction site in London."

"As usual, Lestrade, you're wrong. I don't know her name, but I know where we will be able to find it. Come over here." Lestrade walked over to where Sherlock was standing. The brunet took his shoulders and spun him around, then pointed over the DI's shoulder. "Look across the water. What do you see?"

"A pond? Ducks? Stop playing games, Sherlock and just spit it out." Lestrade was clearly in a foul mood.

John came over, too, to see what Sherlock was pointing at. Across the pond, on the far shore, there was a row of four storey terraced houses. Their back gardens came down to the water.

Sherlock now said quietly in Lestrade's ear, "We will find answers in the third house along- possibly in the top flat or on the third floor."

oOo

John was finding it hard to stomach all the blood. The top floor flat in Number Three, Heath Villas, was awash in it. Anderson was complaining. "Yet another crime scene where I'm going to have to put up with civilians crawling all over the place before I can get to do what I'm paid to do. Sometimes, no, make it just _once_ , I'd like to be able to process a scene properly before the Freak shows up. It's gotten to the point where I routinely screen out his DNA from all my work, without even thinking about it, even when he isn't there because he thinks it's too boring. Utterly ridiculous."

Lestrade just snarled at him. "Shut it, Anderson. I am not in the mood for you being a prima donna."

The man's body lying on the living room carpet had been dead for about nine hours in the doctor's estimation. "Death by exsanguination. There must be thirty or more stab wounds- all in the groin area. His genitals have been…well, you can see the results." The knife was on the floor by the body. Unlike the body in the pond, this one was clothed. Stapled to his bloodied shirt was a note- "Now you will never lead her into temptation again." It was unsigned.

Sherlock was standing at the large dormer window, looking out over the pond. "The location was key. She'd be seen from here."

Lestrade was trying to piece it together. "So, you think that the murderer killed her, put her in the water and then arrived here, to kill Mr Szamuely?" He turned back to the flat doorway. "Donovan!" His voice carried down the stairwell to where the Sergeant was questioning the neighbours from the floor below. When she appeared in the living room, he asked "What do they say?"

"Mr Szamuely lived here on his own; wife died twelve years ago. According to Mrs Samuels from the flat below, he's got a lady friend- been having an affair for about ten months."

Now Sherlock started his deductions. "The woman involved was married. Adultery- am I right, Sergeant?"

The black woman looked a little uncomfortable. "Well, the neighbour didn't know her, did she?" It came out a little defensively.

"No, but _you_ recognised the signs, didn't you? The neighbour told you about the woman's coming and going at odd times of the day or night, but never staying over. The sound of a phone going up here would be heard downstairs, then she'd arrive a set time later, or maybe a rapid departure by My Szamuely after the call here to make a quick rendezvous. All the hallmarks of an adulterous affair."

He walked over to the desk and rifled through some papers. Then he flipped open the laptop, and opened the e mails. "Her name is Diana Crossland."

"How do you know that?" Lestrade came over to look over Sherlock's shoulder, peering at the screen.

"Airline tickets to Rio- here's a confirmation e mail. Advanced passenger information makes it hard to lie; the names have to match what's on the passport. Seems that Mrs Crossland was about to do a runner with her lover. If you track down her address, I think you will find your murderer. However, I expect he will be dead when you get there. A man motivated by this level of revenge will not have wanted to live without the wife he loved so much that he would kill for her."

He looked over at the dead body. "The clue is in the fact that he weighted her down, but drugged her first so she wouldn't struggle. That's mercy. He didn't blame her for their failed relationship, but blamed Szamuely. That's a man who loved his wife, pushed over the edge of reason. He won't want to live without her."

Sally didn't buy it. "Where do you get off, Freak? I mean, figuring out their relationship –okay, I get the evidence that there may be some connection between the body in the pond and this one. But, trying to explain motivations- from a man who is a self-confessed sociopath, what on earth makes you think that _you_ could understand married love?"

It wasn't Sherlock that snapped first. John was stunned when Lestrade just lit into Sally. "Given your history, Donovan, I don't think that makes you qualified to pass judgement on someone else. Maybe if Mr Szamuely had thought twice about the pain he was inflicting on others, he might have kept it in his trousers where it belonged."

Sally looked outraged. "Guv, that was just…out of order." She stomped off and back down the stairs. Down beside the body where he was carefully bagging the corpse's hands, Anderson had observed the DI's exchange with Sally. He stood up and took a breath. "You have no right…"

Lestrade turned to the CS Examiner. "Not another word, Anderson. Just keep that mouth shut. You of all people should know what effect an adulterer has on the innocent party in the marriage. How's the wife these days?"

Eyes blazing, Anderson took a step toward the DI. But before he could do anything more, Sherlock was in motion. He stepped between the two men, grabbed Anderson by the blue forensic suit and literally dragged him out of the room, bundling him out the door and slamming it shut.

"John, would you mind giving us a few minutes?" It was quietly asked. John hesitated. Greg was clearly tired, stressed and uncharacteristically volatile. Leaving him with Sherlock could be a recipe for disaster, and John wasn't sure he wanted to trust Greg's mood with someone as ham-fisted as Sherlock could be. But, he looked into those grey green eyes and saw something that made him trust, so he nodded and left the room.

Sherlock now crossed to look at Greg closely, really scrutinising him to the point where the older man started to look uncomfortable.

"So, she's finally left you."

Greg turned away. "Just leave off, will you, Sherlock? You've had your fun. You've been poking at my marriage for years, positively enjoying the spectacle of me making a fool of myself. So, don't rub salt in the wound by crowing how right you were." The DI just didn't have time for any gloating by the brunet.

"That's not what I was doing before, and that's not what I'm doing now."

"You could have fooled me. Like at Christmas when me and Louise were really trying, you couldn't resist that little barb about the PE teacher, could you? In front of everyone, too. Just the perfect little gift from you to me." He looked away and took a step to put more distance between him and his tormentor.

"That's not what I was doing…or, at least, not what I was trying to do."

Greg just sighed. "You know what? You're done here. You've done your party trick now and sorted this crime out, so just collect the doctor on your way out of here. Leave this mess to me."

"No."

"Sherlock, get out of here. I'm tired and fed up and I don't need the hassle. Leave."

"No."

The second refusal made Greg turn around and glower at the brunet. "Why the hell not?"

"Because you haven't said a word to anyone about your wife and it's eating you up." Sherlock walked up to Greg, invading his personal space in a pointed way. "You haven't slept properly for the past three nights, so she told you on Sunday. She's moved out and you're rattling around in the flat surrounded by memories of her. You haven't called your sister to tell her, because to do so would somehow make it final."

"Shut up, Sherlock. You just don't know when to stop, do you? Just leave me alone!" He put his two hands up on the younger man's shoulders and shoved him away.

Sherlock staggered back a couple of steps, but then said quietly "No."

Greg grabbed him, balling his left fist into Sherlock's shirt and shoved him back against the wall of the living room. His right fist pulled back, to let fly. Sherlock did not resist, he could see what was going to happen, but did nothing to stop the blow. The force of it when it came was enough to smack the back of his head against the wall, and to split his lip open. When Greg released his hold, the brunet half collapsed, half slid into a heap on the floor.

A look of horror crossed Lestrade's face, as he stepped back, looking down at his right fist. "Oh, shit; now look what you've made me do. God, Sherlock, I'm sorry."

"That's pointless, being sorry. You've been wanting to do that to someone, anyone, for the past three days, Lestrade. You're smart enough not to go anywhere near your wife or her new man, because you've seen too many scenes like this one. But not being able to do something has been driving you crazy. Better to hit me than one of your colleagues, wouldn't you say? If you decked Anderson or, heaven forbid, Sally Donovan, it would've cost you your career."

Greg just stared at the man sitting on the floor, with blood streaming down from his cut lip. "You're saying you did that on purpose? Poked me until I hit you, just so…what, I didn't clobber someone else?" His incredulity showed.

Sherlock got unsteadily to his feet, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to stem the flow. He looked back on the wall and frowned. "You'll have to tell Anderson about that." He pointed to a fine line of blood spatter. "He fusses enough about me contaminating _his_ crime scene. " His voice was utterly matter-of-fact, as if he was totally unconcerned about Greg punching him.

"Why would you do that?" Lestrade couldn't understand the motivation. Obviously, Sherlock had deduced his distress and somehow thought that getting him to punch him would help. As the adrenaline raced through the DI's bloodstream, he realised that throwing the punch had actually felt _good._ The continuous replay of Louise's last words about making a proper try stopped.

Sherlock wiped the blood from his lip, slurring slightly through the wad of white cotton he kept pressed to his face. "My brother would say I deserved it- being hit. I think he wanted to do the same thing to me when I was nine years old and I told my mother about my father's infidelities over a Sunday roast lunch. I tell people what they don't want to see for themselves. I don't do it to be popular, just honest. It's up to you to make of the information what you want. For my mother, it was enough to banish my father to the London townhouse for a month- which was stupid in hindsight because it let him get on with the affair without interruption. In your case, I've kept my eye on you because your marriage means so much to you. I was trying to let you know the truth so that when this day finally came, you'd know you'd done everything you could to keep her with you. You did the best you could. Some marriages just end, Lestrade, because people change. It doesn't make them right or wrong, just normal people, like everyone else."

Greg looked at the younger man, understanding for the first time what Sherlock had done. A moment of silence passed between the two men.

"Right then, I'd better get Anderson back up here and let him do his job. Thanks for taking the case Sherlock." And he went back to work, as Sherlock went down the stairs.


	2. Chapter 2

"Hold still."

Sherlock flinched. "Thath hurths."

"Yes, I imagine it does. Maybe you shouldn't have pissed him off so much. The pain just might make you remember that even Lestrade's patience has its limits."

"Wasthn't like thath."

John was trying to clean off the caked blood from Sherlock's lip, but his patient was not being patient. In fact, he was squirming worse than most kids who John patched up in the GP surgery. He had packed the gap between Sherlock's top lip and his teeth with some gauze to try to stop the bleeding. As he debrided the gash in his lower lip, he thought about the seven year old Sikh boy who last week had sat like a rock while he stitched the nasty cut he had received in his mouth when coming off his skateboard at great speed. He'd finished that session by giving the boy a lollipop for bravery and his parents a talking to about the virtue of mouth guards. That made him smirk; a mouth guard might have stopped Sherlock from saying whatever it was that got Lestrade so pissed off he punched him.

"Whath tho funny?"

John tried not to giggle. Sherlock's fat lip and John's own hand trying to keep the skin taut was making his speech into something extremely childish.

Unfortunately, Sherlock could read John like a book, and he pulled back, his eyes stormy with anger. "Itth not funny. Itth _hurths_."

"Sherlock, if you don't stop trying to talk, then I swear I will turn my phone on and record your conversation, and then send it to Mycroft."

"Thath too cwool."

The doctor reached into his pocket, pulled the phone out and found the recorder app, turning it on. "Want to do a sound test for me?"

That shut up the brunet. In blissful silence, John surveyed the damage. The DI's fist had clearly connected at speed with Sherlock's mouth, catching his lower lip against his teeth and ripping it open. The upper lip was swollen as well, and the whole side of his mouth was now turning a nasty blue. The trouble with skin as fair as Sherlock's is that it showed every bit of damage in its full technicolour glory. And the cupid bow symmetry was definitely out of shape, blown up and swollen like a clown's on the left side.

It made him think of the time that he'd punched Sherlock. And that, unfortunately, recalled to mind Irene Adler's comment about how someone must have loved Sherlock, because if she'd had to do it, she would have avoided his nose and teeth, too. By The Woman's definition then, Lestrade definitely did not love Sherlock.

"OK, Sherlock, open wide and let the doctor see inside."

That got him a glare. John pursed his own lips. "I need to see if there's any damage to your teeth, idiot."

Sherlock tried, but his lips were so swollen that it was hard to see, so John gingerly lifted the top lip up, and pulled the gauze wadding free. Underneath, the gum was bright red, but when John touched the teeth, at least he couldn't detect anything had been knocked loose. The tip of his tongue seemed to have caught a bit of the impact,too. Not bloody, but bruised enough to be affecting his speech- probably been right up against his teeth when the blow landed.

"Hmmm. You need to see a dentist. When was the last time you had x-rays?"

Sherlock glowered, and shook his head.

"I'm not just talking about the possible dental damage caused by one irate detective inspector. Have you actually had your teeth cleaned in the past year? Your taste for black coffee and recently-given-up smoking habits mean your teeth need to be cleaned."

Sherlock pulled back completely from John's touch and crossed his arms defensively. If looks could kill, John knew he would be in need of a resus unit.

"Fixth ith."

"I can only suture the cut, Sherlock; I don't do dental work."

He now reached for the syringe of local anaesthetic, tapping the needle. Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes while John injected. The doctor could feel the tightness in the lean body as the brunet tensed when the needle went in.

"When you can talk properly again, you and I are going to have to chat about what is socially acceptable to say to a detective inspector."

That got him the second death-ray glare. John decided he was rather enjoying this.

oOo

Several hours later, Sherlock was now lying on the sofa staring up at the ceiling. John had dug the icepack out of the freezer, and it was now affixed to the side of the brunet's face. Every so often, John came by to lift if off and keep an eye on how things were developing.

"The bruising is starting to come out now around your eye. I've always thought Greg Lestrade would pack a mean punch if you finally stepped over the boundaries. You must have really pissed him off."

Sherlock huffed. The swelling of his top lip and tongue had gone down to the point where he didn't sound like a lisping child anymore, but talking was still obviously painful.

John did feel a pang of guilt. At the time, he had wondered whether it was wise to leave Sherlock with the DI, given that Greg was so obviously on edge. But, he never anticipated that Sherlock would provoke him to the point of physical violence. John was aware that the two men had been working together for years before he'd appeared on the scene, but he'd always thought that the DI had a soft spot for Sherlock. He worried that Sherlock had crossed a line, and that it would be hard to repair the damage in their relationship.

He knew from first-hand experience that his flatmate had the capacity to well and truly get up someone's nose, but he'd always walked away to get some air before his temper got the better of him. And in the time that John had known him, Sherlock seemed to know exactly how close to the edge he could go with the DI.

"You know, I still can't decide which I am more surprised about- Greg losing it enough to actually hit you, or the look on Anderson's face, when you came down the stairs with blood streaming down your face. I wonder if he gave Lestrade a round of applause when he went back up to process the scene."

John reached over to lift the icepack off the side of Sherlock's face, to look at the skin underneath. "Yeah, definitely going to have a real shiner, too. I hope we don't get any cases that require you going to Scotland Yard for at least a week."

The younger man did not respond, just lay there on the sofa with his eyes closed.

"What the hell did you say to him?"

Sherlock said quietly. "None of your business."

The doctor stood up, frustrated. No matter how many times John had asked him what was going on with Lestrade, Sherlock had not been willing to say. "If he holds this against you and keeps you off cases as some kind of punishment, you will go bonkers. And you'll make my life hell. I think I might have a word with him over a pint, try to smooth things over a bit.

"Do not interfere, John; just leave him alone. Promise me you won't raise the issue with him."

When John didn't answer, Sherlock repeated it. "I mean it, John. Just let it go, it's OK."

John was halfway back to the kitchen when he digested that last comment. _It's as if Sherlock's_ _protecting_ _Lestrade._ He was still trying to figure out what that meant when he got up the next morning.


	3. Chapter 3

While John hoped that Sherlock would be spared having to appear in public for a few days to let the bruises and swelling to go down, the fates conspired otherwise. No sooner had the doctor come downstairs to fix his breakfast when his phone went off. He'd left it on the table, under a pile of newspaper cuttings covering yesterday's Hampshire Heath murders- he'd started drafting the blog post. By the time he'd fished the phone out, he found a missed call and then a text came through

**8.23am Double murder. At least an eight. 62 Kensington Square Gardens GL**

_Sounds like business as usual, all is forgiven._ Just as he was thinking that through, he heard Sherlock come down the hall. He was 'dressed', if you could call it that, in a sheet, holding his phone and reading what was probably the exact same text. John almost winced at the sight of his face. The bruising was now out in all its glory- a spectrum of black, blue and purple, plus the red swollen lips. He hoped it wasn't as painful as it looked.

"I could always give your excuses, Sherlock."

The brunet looked up from his phone. "Excuses about what?"

The doctor gestured in the vague direction of his flatmate's face. "That!"

"It's irrelevant. I'll be ready to go in about fifteen minutes. If you can finish breakfast by then and get dressed, why not come along? You're not due at the clinic until after lunch."

"You do realise that parading that face around the Yard team is going to lead to some rather horrid comments."

Sherlock just snorted in derision. "As if I cared. I've never let bruises come between me and a good case before, why should I now?"

oOo

Thirty minutes later, their taxi was crawling through rush-hour traffic on Westbourne Grove, and they crossed the intersection with Queensway.

"Whatever it is you've been debating about saying, John, you have about three minutes more before we get there."

Yes, John had been thinking about how to broach the subject without pissing off Sherlock. "Well, he must have forgiven you, if he wants you on a crime scene again so soon, but it might be wise if you were to apologise."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Why would I apologise?"

"Maybe, because you pissed him off yesterday? Or did you get that face some other way than from connecting it with Lestrade's fist?"

"Forget it, John." Sherlock returned to the research he'd been doing on his mobile for the past fifteen minutes.

"Sherlock, you can't just pretend that it didn't happen. Social rules mean that when this sort of thing occurs you need to admit responsibility and apologise. Then you can both settle things and move on."

"I can assure you that Lestrade does not expect an apology from me."

 _No, you never apologise, do you?_ Now it was John's turn to shake his head, more in disbelief at his friend's social ineptitude than anything else. "You just don't get it, do you?"

There was no reply. The taxi turned onto Kensington Gardens Square, and John knew he had only a moment or two to get his point across. He could see that one of the houses about half way along the terrace was being renovated, and was covered by scaffolding and white plastic sheeting. But before he got his thoughts organised, the taxi ground to a halt and Sherlock was out of the back, and approaching the yellow police tape that cordoned off the renovation. He ducked under it without a backward glance, leaving John to pay the fare.

By the time he made it into Number 62, he could hear Sherlock's footsteps on the flight of stairs two floors above him. As he started up the first flight, he caught sight of Sally Donovan, who was crouching on the floor in the living room poking at some builder's tools. She saw him too and did not try to hide the smirk on her face. She threw a comment that followed him up the stairs. "I hope the Guv evens up the damage. Time the Freak got what he deserved." John sighed, and wondered what she had said when she'd first seen Sherlock.

When he got to the third floor, he could hear the nasal tones of Anderson from a room towards the back of the house. His heart sank. Lestrade's Murder Investigation Unit did not always get assigned the same Forensic Examiner, but it was sod's law that it would be today.

As John came into the room, Anderson was in full flow. "Well, at least today I won't have to get a blood sample to rule your contamination out. Lestrade showed me the blood spatter from yesterday, and I collected a sample. He finally got fed up with you, I see." His sneering triumph showed how much pleasure he was getting from the sight.

 _Please, God, don't let him rise to the bait._ He started to step forward to get their attention.

Sherlock's baritone reply surprised him to the point where he almost stopped in his tracks.

"If you'd show me what you've found, I'd like to get started." Polite, calm, and not a trace of his usual aggravation with the CS Examiner.

As John came further into the room, he could see Anderson's confusion. He could also see that the three of them were the only people in the room. No sign of Lestrade.

Sherlock just waited for Anderson. Not a huff of derision or an attempt to push past him to get to get on with the work.

Nonplussed, Don Anderson faltered but then decided to play it safe. "Builder on the scene first thing this morning was stripping off old wallpaper, and came across new-ish plaster there." He gestured at what was now a jagged hole about two feet wide and three feet high. "He got curious and knocked through to find a void space. Runs the whole length of the house. And neat as can be, inside the space are two wrapped up bodies, one of them a little kid. Sealed in polythene, vacuum packed as best we can tell. The ME is in there now with them."

"Where's Lestrade?" John wanted to know, if only to buy time for Sherlock.

"He's out the back with the project manager, getting the low down on the buy-to-let renovation, the owners, who they bought it from, you know…" here he couldn't resist taking a dig at Sherlock, "… _proper_ police work where you actually get facts before you start _guessing_ about what might have happened."

Sherlock didn't even blink. In a perfectly polite tone, he asked "Is it alright if I see the bodies now?"

If Anderson was expecting a session of Sherlock-baiting, he wasn't getting it. He just shrugged, "suit yourself." But, old habits die hard. "Of course, I would prefer it if you would _suit yourself,_ you know, by wearing a proper crime scene _suit_ like the rest of us, but we know _that_ isn't going to happen anytime soon, don't we?" His sarcasm just rolled off of Sherlock like water off a duck's back. The tall man examined the edges of the broken plaster carefully before ducking into the hole.

The hidden space was narrow- less than eighteen inches wide at the back end of the house, about four meters to Sherlock's right, but from the emergency lighting that the medical examiner had dragged into the space, he could see that it was a bit wider toward the front of the house, which extended ten or twelve meters to the left. The ME in a blue plastic suit was bent over the longer of the two shiny wrapped bundles. He was taking photographs. Sherlock could hear the high pitched whine of the digital flashgun re-charging and closed his eyes just as it went off.

John poked his head through but realised that there was no way he'd fit in there with the other two men. So, he decided that he'd go find Lestrade and test the water. As he turned, he saw Anderson was removing samples of the wall paper and putting them into evidence bags.

The doctor gave him a stern look. "I'm going downstairs to speak to Detective Inspector Lestrade. While I'm down there, I'll get the suit on. You do know _why_ Sherlock doesn't wear one, don't you? It's not like he does it to annoy you personally. So for once in your life, try to be tolerant."

Anderson smirked. "Yeah, I know the Freak's _problem_. I was there when he went into meltdown because of the gear. Look, I know it's not politically correct to criticise disability, but, it's just another reason why I don't think he belongs on any crime scene. A self-confessed sociopath gets in the way of our teamwork." Here he couldn't resist broadening the smirk. "And it looks like the DI has finally got the message, too." He couldn't help but chuckle. "I see he's trying to be on his best behaviour. Shows that Lestrade should have used his fist to shut him up years ago."

It was just like Anderson to draw the wrong conclusion about the one time Sherlock tried not to irritate him. The doctor just sighed. "Just leave him alone, will you?" He knew it was a forlorn hope, but he wanted to see Lestrade before Sherlock did.

Downstairs he pulled a pack from the pile by the front door, ripped open the plastic wrapper and pulled the blue suit on over his clothes. The combination of scent, feel and the horrible sound it made as the plastic rubbed- it irritated him, so he could imagine what it would do to Sherlock. For someone with sensory processing issues, it would be like being confined in your own personal torture chamber.

He met Lestrade coming down the ground floor hallway from the kitchen. The DI smiled a greeting. "Good- you're here. He's up there, is he? This one's a real puzzle. Nobody can figure out how long the bodies might have been there, because the wall paper is old, but the plaster is new. It just doesn't make sense." He started to put a fresh pair of latex gloves on. That's when he glanced into the living room, and saw Sally. He ducked his head in and realised that she was alone. "Where's Anderson?"

She just smiled. "Upstairs with the Freak."

Lestrade gave a rueful smile and headed up with John. "Right, better make sure they don't kill each other, shall we?"

"He's on best behaviour. Not a word that wouldn't pass as polite."

Lestrade's scepticism was evident. "You're joking, aren't you?"

The doctor gave him a slightly odd look. "No, perfectly serious. Whatever you said or rather _did_ to Sherlock yesterday has had the desired effect. He hasn't said a word out of line, despite the best efforts of Sally and Anderson to provoke him. They don't seem to be recognising a truce, even if Sherlock's waving a white flag."

On the second flight, they had to step aside as constables came down carrying body bags. The ME brought up the rear. "I'm taking them to the mortuary where I can cut open the vacuum packaging under controlled circumstances. Holmes said he'll be along shortly, but he's examining the void now."

When Lestrade reached the doorway of the back room on the top floor, Anderson was just coming out of the room. "I just don't get it, sir. The plaster is clearly new compared to the rest of the wall. But the wall paper over it was six layers deep, and at least thirty years old- probably twice that. The bodies can't have been in there for long- they're not mummified, but there is no entry anywhere, not in this room or any that share the wall with the void. I've dusted for prints in the void- it's antiseptically clean. Out here I've checked the skirting boards and windows, but they aren't going to be contemporaneous with the bodies- most likely they'll check out to be the builders. I'll get someone to print the lot of them." He looked annoyed. "Oh, FYI, Holmes is hiding in the void- seems like yesterday you taught him some manners; about bloody time, too, Detective Inspector."

The idea of Sherlock being accused of hiding was just too ridiculous, but John crossed over to the hole and peered in. Sherlock had his back to the hole, and was staring up at the ceiling. "You alright, Sherlock?"

"Of course, John. Is Lestrade with you?"

"Yeah."

"Is Anderson gone?"

John looked behind him. Lestrade was just finishing up his conversation with the CS Examiner, who then clattered down the stairs. So, he turned back to the void. "Looks like it."

Sherlock came through the hole, crouching down to get his tall frame through the three foot tall space. He then stood up and waited. Lestrade turned away from the hallway and caught his first sight of Sherlock.

He stopped moving and just stared in shock. Then he closed his eyes for a moment, as if he couldn't bear the sight. "Oh, Sherlock, I'm so s…"

"Don't." Quietly but firmly spoken, Sherlock stopped him from continuing.

"But, Sher…"

" Don't. There is no need."

Greg lifted his hand to his own face and rubbed his forehead. "But, they've got it all wrong."

"And I said, don't. There is no need for any further discussion."

John could see the DI was distressed. Not angry, no- far from it. Embarrassed. Apologetic. Even in his body language. The doctor didn't understand what was going on, but it wasn't what he expected. And, in that moment, he realised that he might be intruding on something private. Sherlock was just calmly looking at the detective inspector, his face unreadable. Lestrade took a couple of steps closer to Sherlock. "It's not right, Sherlock. It's not fair, if they think…"

Again, Sherlock cut him off. "I don't care what _they_ think. You, however, do need to care. They have to respect you, if you are to do your job. So, let them think whatever they want about me."

The conversation was so cryptic that John was lost. He decided that retreat might be helpful. "Uh, I'm going to make myself scarce" and started to head for the door.

This time it was Lestrade who intervened first. "No, not John. Yeah, guess you're right about the rest of the team- but not John. I won't have him thinking this is your fault. That's just not right." He turned to John. "Shut the door, will you?"

Now John was in a bind. "Sherlock? Do you want me to go?" He realised something serious was going on, but wasn't sure that his friend would welcome his being there. After all, Lestrade had prior claim.

Sherlock sighed, then put up a hand in surrender.

Lestrade now closed the distance remaining between him and Sherlock, and surveyed the damage. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I couldn't help but think about it all last night, and felt guilty as hell. You were trying to help me, and like the idiot you always accuse me of being, I didn't get it then."

"No apology is needed. It's only fair."

That confused Lestrade. "No, you were right. Sometimes people change. It hurts like hell, but you were trying to tell me all along, and I just didn't _want_ to see it. We're not all as gifted as you are at being able to see the truth."

John was utterly lost. "Okay, you don't mind me being here, but I feel like I'm in a foreign film- a few sub-titles, please?"

Lestrade turned to the doctor. "My wife finally left me- on the weekend. Our marriage is over- hurts like hell." Now he gestured at Sherlock, "he's been trying to tell me that for the past two years, and I took it out on him yesterday. Lost my temper and clobbered him- because he was right, because he was there, and because he would let me." Now he turned back to the brunet. "Not only that, you pushed me into hitting you so I wouldn't do something I'd regret, with someone who pissed me off on the team or, heaven forbid, the wife or her lover."

 _Not exactly what a sociopath would do._ John decided that he might just be pushing his luck, but it was worth asking. "So, Sherlock, why'd you do that?"

"Lestrade's put up with more than enough from me over the years, seemed only fair to redress the balance a bit. Now, if you both wouldn't mind, I'd _really_ like to stop this tedious conversation and get back to what is a _very_ interesting case."

And John realised that it was all the explanation he was ever likely to get, so he shut up.

oOo

Two hours later, Sherlock solved the case. John and Lestrade were standing on one side of the mortuary slab with the woman's body, Molly was on the other side. The pathologist had completed the first autopsy, removing the organs, weighing them and then stitched the Y cuts up.

Sherlock paced in tight circles at the head of the three tables. The Police ME had done his job, handing over the bodies of a female who looked to be in her mid-thirties and a female infant- maybe a year to eighteen months old. Fingerprint scans showed neither was in the system. Dental records would be checked but he didn't hold out much hope "The woman's bridgework looks foreign; the little girl is too young to have needed a dentist."

"So, Miss Hooper, how long do you think they've been dead?" Lestrade looked at the Pathologist, who was examining the skin of the woman.

She frowned. "It's hard to say. Because they were wrapped up, and vacuum packed, there is no aerobic decomposition. Anaerobic decomp is harder to calculate; a lot depends on how warm they got. But sooner or later the gases produced by the decomposition will burst the wrapper. If it was ordinary plastic, I'd guess not that long- a couple of weeks at best. But, given the strength of the plastic, it could have lasted for months." She shrugged apologetically. "I'm sorry, but I can't be any more precise. I do know that when the ME cut open the bags, a lot of gasses escaped, but, then again, the organs are still for the most part intact, yet showing signs of decomposition. It's a real puzzle."

Sherlock stopped his pacing and pulled his phone out, accessing something on the internet. Then made a phone call.

"Ah, is that Pritchard Estate Agents? I'm enquiring about a property you have to let on Kensington Gardens Square, at Number 64. I believe it's a top floor flat?" Molly, Greg and John waited as Sherlock listened to whatever was being said by the estate agent.

"Could you tell me how long it's been empty?"

...

"And if I needed to contact the former occupants, do you have an address for them?

...

"Yes- well, I do need it, because I urgently need to contact them regarding the death of a relative in Birmingham; there is an inheritance involved."

...

"That's very helpful, miss. Yes, I am sure that when they get the inheritance, they will be able to pay the rent which they owe you. Goodbye."

He turned back to face the three. "Anish Ranchod, Amina his wife, and Zani, their baby daughter lived in the flat next door to the crime scene, top floor of Number 64. They'd been renting for two years and then did a midnight flit, according to the estate agent, owing a month's rent. That was three weeks ago, so we have time of death. He and his wife were from Pakistan, their daughter was born eighteen months ago. That's probably not their real names, but what they told the letting agency."

"Let us assume that they came into the UK on a tourist visa and melted into the background. If they were legal, their fingerprints would be in the system. The credit check done by the agency before agreeing the lease has Ranchod down as working in the catering business. That's where another key clue emerges. It's the vacuum packing that gives it away- only a large food processing factory has access to vacuum technology and sheet polythene strong enough to keep the decomposition scent from escaping quickly."

Now he bent over the neck of the female's body, and exposed the slash. "Now- the method of death is interesting. Not just an ordinary knife wound. The large arteries of the neck along with the oesophagus and vertebrate trachea have been severed with one swipe of a non-serrated blade. Molly- can you confirm that the child was killed the same way, and that in neither case has there been damage to the nerves?"

"Yes- that's true. I …thought it a bit…you know…odd. In most cases, if someone slashes a throat, it's, um, done with more force and there is nerve damage, too. But not on these three."

"Then, Lestrade, you are looking for a halal caterer, who does butchery on site. The cutting technique is unique- designed to ensure that the animal bleeds to death before it could die from any other cause, such as a severed nerve stopping the heart. At this stage of decomposition, I doubt we would find any traces of blood, but given the technique used, I think it is logical to assume that there wasn't any when they were sealed in the heavy plastic. You will be able to identify which halal catering firm by the plastic used- it's a heavy-duty variety used to export meat, so a caterer with a business selling pre-packed, frozen halal meat, probably to Saudi Arabia, as it cannot meet demand during Hajj with local resources."

John was once again astonished by the breadth of Sherlock's knowledge. For someone who swore he deleted extraneous facts- like the solar system- he had the most bizarre collection of facts carefully stored away, such as the knife technique of a halal butcher and why Saudi Arabia had such a demand for meat that they'd import it from the UK.

"If that's true, then why didn't the murderer just butcher the bodies, freeze the remains and ship it off to the Middle East?"

Despite the gruesome nature of the discussion, Sherlock smiled. "You can thank the horse meat scandal for that- meat exports are being DNA tested. He wouldn't be able to take the chance that human DNA would be picked up."

John watched Sherlock closely examining the woman's skin across her breasts. "Sherlock, why are you thinking the husband is the murderer?

Sherlock now stood upright again, clasping his hands behind his back. "Have you done the organ dissections yet, Molly?"

She shook her head.

"Then please examine the woman's uterus. I think you will find that she is pregnant- possible as far along as six or seven months."

She looked startled. "How would you know that?" She moved to the dissection table and lifted one of the plastic containers. She had set aside the organs to take tissue samples later.

"The nature and location of their death suggests an honour killing. Nevertheless the bodies were treated with some respect. When you look for the catering firm, it will be the one whose halal butcher has joined in the last month. I expect Ranchod has returned to Pakistan- but on his real passport, so untraceable."

"Oh!" The pathologist sounded startled- she must have found something. Sherlock smirked. "Careful with that scalpel, Molly. You will need to preserve the foetus as evidence, and we may be able to get DNA evidence."

She brought over the stainless steel pan, in which the dissected uterus lay, and nodded to Sherlock.

Lestrade put it together. "So, she was pregnant, and the husband knows it isn't his, so he murdered her. That's horrible enough, but why kill his own daughter, too?"

John answered before Sherlock. "Can he be sure she _is_ his daughter? He might have thought she was also the product of adultery."

"DNA will be needed, Molly. An illegal immigrant, a halal butcher, believes his wife to be an adulteress, but fears losing everything if he makes a public spectacle of her shame. So, he does the deed in the only way he knows how, with his own knife, applying the same technique he uses every day. For all we know, he is now back in Pakistan trying to find a new wife."

The DI then frowned at Sherlock. "But, I still don't understand how the bodies got placed in the space between the two flats. There is no way the guy could have broken through into the void from the other side. The party wall between the two buildings is at least two feet wide of solid brick- and there is absolutely no sign of disturbance in it- we looked very carefully. So, I don't get it."

Sherlock gave one of his trademark smirks. "No, I don't suppose you would, but then most police have a two-dimensional mind, even you, Lestrade."

John realised what Sherlock meant- it's what he saw when he looked through the hole and saw the brunet looking up. "The ceiling? You're saying he came through the roof?"

The consulting detective nodded. "I'm sure you'll find that the flat in Number 64 has an attic. So, when you take a look, you will probably find signs of breaking through to the house next door's roof space. After putting the bodies in, he re-laid the ceiling boards, covered it over with loft insulation, and then probably hid the entrance from Number 64, too. Being sealed in there would delay the bodies being discovered for quite some time. Even when the plastic burst, the renovators would have trouble figuring out where the smell was coming from- and I'd bet it would put off potential buyers for months, if not years."

Lestrade was thinking it through. "Only one problem with that Sherlock. The builders found the new plaster under the really old paper. How do you explain that?"

Sherlock's smile broadened. "Of course, when the murderer hid the bodies, he'd have seen the crumbling plaster from the _inside_ of the void, and worried about the scent escaping. So, he fixed it, never dreaming that it would actually raise suspicions. He nearly got away with it; most builders would have just put it down as a damp spot and carried on. The builder who got curious is to be commended, Lestrade. He's just saved the new owners a great deal of trouble."

John looked down at the two bodies, and was filled with an overwhelming sense of sadness. "What a waste- it seems so very cruel."

"The institution of marriage is responsible for an extraordinary amount of crime, John. It is fortunate that most don't end with a murder." If the consulting detective and the detective inspector exchanged a meaningful glance, John decided not to mention it.


End file.
